


A Final Interview

by thesometimeswarrior



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesometimeswarrior/pseuds/thesometimeswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But the man who entered, though he carried a tray, did not don the gray uniform of the new government, nor was he armed as the other guards were.  Though he looked horrible, skin burnt, and eyes still vaguely in pain, he apparently tried to present an appearance of put-togetherness, with his hair perfectly combed back, something that the prisoner admired."</p><p>While in prison after the Rebellion, Caesar Flickerman is visited by an old face seeking closure and answers. Set at the end of Mockingjay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Final Interview

He felt old, finally, after years and years of artificial youth had consumed him, after years and years of running from age. It was funny—he never realized how much energy he had exerted outrunning it, until he was here, forced to stand still, forced to feel the years find his face, his body, his everything, and he finally recognized his previous efforts. He supposed he should count himself lucky to be alive at this juncture, even if it wouldn’t last long. But here, in this cell, with its florescent light, he only counted himself lucky not to have a mirror, for if he had, he knew he would have found himself gazing into it, weeping for the sagging of his face, the wrinkles discernible without makeup and his lack of wigs. Oh, what a thing to bemoan—that, and the loss of his audience. Who cared if he mourned, if anyone mourned, if there was no one to watch?

When he heard the knock on the door of his cell, he was surprised. The guards never knocked before delivering food—no, not food, sustenance. Food was what he had eaten as a free man, at the lavish banquets in the Capitol, or what his private chef had cooked, or what he occasionally had been provided in the green room before a show or taping. What they brought him here, three times a day, kept him alive, kept his stomach from churning, but it was not food. And when they brought it, they were generally not friendly enough to knock. Perhaps it’s some fresh new thing on the job today, he thought. Perhaps they haven’t learned the rules yet. 

But the man who entered, though he carried a tray, did not don the gray uniform of the new government, nor was he armed as the other guards were. Though he looked horrible, skin burnt, and eyes still vaguely in pain, he apparently tried to present an appearance of put-togetherness, with his hair perfectly combed back, something that the prisoner admired.

“Rumor has it you like coffee,” the newcomer said, placing the tray down on the cell’s small concrete table.

“Rumor is correct,” responded the prisoner, helping himself to a full mug from the tray. “Thank you. I’m not really in a position to host, but please, sit down.” He motioned to a seat near the table. 

The visitor sat. The two remained in awkward silence for a moment—the captive didn’t know whether the other man intended to begin a conversation or not. When he didn’t, the prisoner broke the quiet. “Did you bake these cookies?”

“Yeah. And iced them. It’s therapeutic.”

“Well, they’re lovely.”

“Thanks.”

Another awkward pause. Where was the boy, the captive wondered, who could perform eloquently at the drop of a hat, wax poetic with a twitch of a tongue? Perhaps he too was lost without an audience.

When he could stand the silence no longer, and when his burning curiosity finally got the better of him, the prisoner asked: “Peeta…Mr. Mellark, what are you doing here? I can’t imagine it’s just to bring me coffee and sweets.”

Peeta closed his eyes. “How many times have you interviewed me, Caesar?”

Caesar thought for a moment. “Six, yes? Before your first Games, after, before the Quarter Quell, and then...” He paused briefly, awkwardly. “Three times in the Capitol. Then of course a few little things here and there, during your Victory Tour and whatno—”

“Yeah, six times. Maybe more than any other Tribute. But now I want to interview you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. No cameras. No audience. Just you and me.”

The old man considered. “And they’re okay with you doing this?”

“Frankly,” responded Peeta, “They don’t care what I do as long as I see my therapist for so many hours a day, and he doesn’t deem me a threat.”

“And does he?”

“Some days. But not today.”

Another pause. 

Then the young man continued. “Well?”

“I don’t suppose I have much choice in the matter, do I?”

“I’m not them,” Peeta quipped, motioning with his head to the guards standing outside the door. “And I’m not the old ones either. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But I thought you might enjoy some company. And coffee and cookies. But if not, I can leave. It’s up to you.”

After a moment, and a thoughtful sip of coffee, Caesar conceded. “Stay, please. I’ll do your interview. It’s just strange. I’ve never really been on this side of it—and this is not exactly like where I’ve conducted interviews in the past.”

“No? How’d you start? Because I’d imagine one doesn’t just become the Host of the Hunger Games overnight.”

“No. I did smaller gigs, TV Shows, hosted some promotions, commercials, that sort of thing. People noticed my fashion choices, first, actually, and I was asked to host Capitol Colors—this fashion reality show,” he added to Peeta’s confused look. “It never really caught on. All B-Listers, all forgotten after each season. But people noticed me. They liked the way I interviewed, presented. I found myself doing more and more Primetime interviews, and the next thing I knew, President Snow and Cicero Crown—that year’s Head Gamemaker—asked me to Host the Hunger Games.”

“And you accepted?”

“Of course I accepted! It doesn’t get better than that for a performer in Panem! That’s it!”

“So you were excited?”

Caesar nodded. “And terrified.”

“Why?”

“Because the whole country would be watching. Everyone—both in the Capitol and the Districts. It was bigger than anything I had done before. And the scale was huge. And my job would be huge. There was all the pomp before the Games I’d have to host—the Parade, all those interviews to prepare, the scores to present—and then narrating the Games themselves is a humongous and grueling job, plus the after interviews with the Victor—or Victors in your case—and then the Victory Tour a few months later…It was like I never got any privacy, like I was always on camera!”

Peeta snorted. “Hm. Really.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m sorry.”

“No, what?”

“It doesn’t matter. Can I continue?”

Caesar eyed Peeta tensely for a moment, but then relented: “Fine.”

“So you accepted the job. You were set to host the Hunger Games. Then what?”

“I did it. And kept doing it. You’ve seen the rest.”

“And did you…enjoy your work?”

Caesar considered for a moment. “I think I did. You know, I never realized until now, that for as much as looked forward to the job beforehand, while I was doing it, I never really thought about whether I was enjoying myself. But I think that means that I was happy. I was ‘in the zone,’ and all that. One doesn’t think when one is passionate about what he’s doing.”

“So you were passionate about your role in the Games?”

“Yes, absolutely!”

Peeta turned his head, so that he was no longer facing his captive companion. “I always thought you seemed like a good man, Caesar. So I need to know…why?”

Caesar was startlingly taken aback. “Why? Why what?”

Peeta turned to face the other man again. “How could you, knowing…knowing what the Games were, be passionate about them?”

Caesar took another sip of coffee in lieu of an immediate response. “I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘knowing what the Games were?’ A great symbol of national pride? Unity?”

“How about the annual televised and celebrated murder of twenty-four children!”

“I…I never thought of them that way.”

Peeta suddenly exploded into a stand, as if, Caesar noted, there was too much rage in him to stay seated. “How could you not think of them that way? You, who shook all of the Tributes’ hands, and asked them questions, and spent time getting to know them. You knew that only one came back! You knew what they did to each other in the Arena! In fact, you narrated it! How were you okay with that?”

“Peeta, they were just Games.”

“They were NOT just Games!” Peeta roared, and the old man sitting across from where he stood couldn’t help but notice that Peeta’s eyes were beginning to bulge, becoming more and more manic. The young man threw his leg onto the table. “See this? It’s artificial. I lost my leg in my first Games, Caesar. For real. It’s really gone! It’s not coming back! And I was lucky! Because you know what else isn’t coming back? The lives of Marvel and Glimmer and Cato and Clove and Jason and Thresh, and Rue, and that Foxfaced girl, and Seeder, and Cecelia, and Woof, and Blight, and Mags, and Wiress, and Gloss, and Cashmere, and Chaff, and Brutus, and...” he paused unintentionally to gasp for air “and so many hundreds of others. You hosted the Games for what? Thirty-six years? Just in the time that you’ve been hosting the Games, over eight hundred and twenty kids were killed. And you shook all of their hands and knew all of their names!”

Caesar merely blinked. 

The enraged Peeta continued. “And you know something else that isn’t coming back? The people all the Victors were before they were reaped. They’re gone too.”

“I don’t understand. The Victors are all still alive—although I heard some perished in the New Rebellion, which is a shame. But that wasn’t the fault of the Games, so—”

“No, Caesar. That’s not what I’m talking about at all. Remember what I told you in front of all those viewers all that time ago, during our first interview after the Quell, here in the Capitol? Hm?”

“You told me that it costs everything you are…but what does that mean?”

Caesar understood people and the signals they gave; to do so had been his job for over forty years. He understood therefore, that after the younger man took several deep breaths to calm himself down (probably a strategy his therapist taught him, thought Caesar), that Peeta eyed him with what could only be called condescension, before returning to his seat at the table, helping himself to a cookie and finally speaking. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“How about nieces or nephews?”

“Not anymore. I had a niece. But she…passed away recently, in the New Rebellion.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How old was she?”

“Thirteen.”

“So young. What was her name?”

“Cordelia.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She…she loved the color pink. She wore pink dresses. Pink wigs. Pink eyelashes. But not that bright fuchsia, hot pink, color that was just recently popular. No, she was subtler than that. Delia loved pastels—like the color ballerinas wore.”

“She seems like a beautiful innocent child.”

“She was.”

Peeta nodded and was silent for a moment. “I have a different question for you. Do you have any highlights of hosting the Games? Any favorite showdowns?”

Caesar was taken aback for an instant—what a juxtaposition, his Cordelia and the brutal beauty of the Games. But he was glad to have a respite from his grief to talk about them. “There was one year when the District 1 tribute, who was eighteen-years old, and had dual swords, ambushed the campsite of this little girl from District 9. And she was completely outmatched—he should have destroyed her in an instant. But instead she managed to grab this gaping rock, hurled it at 1’s head, and BOOM! He was down! Cannon went off! It was a huge upset—Fantastic to talk about!”

The younger man closed his eyes. “Now imagine if the little girl from 9 was Cordelia.”

The old man nearly choked on his coffee. “What? But it would never be Cordelia! She would never, she could never…she was too…”

“What if a big Career Tribute from District 1 was holding dual swords to her throat?”

Caesar, too shocked to respond, simply stared across the table. 

“She would hurl the rock at him,” continued Peeta. “Or at least try to. Believe me. I know, because I’ve been in that situation. You saw me k-kill Brutus. And your niece would’ve done the same thing.”

“But then she wouldn’t be…that wouldn’t be Delia any more.”

“Exactly. If she survived, she would never be the same again. She would never be herself again. None of us were. The Games destroyed all the Tributes—even the Victors.”

“But you’re wrong because that would never be Delia. The kids who went into the Games…they were not like she was…”

“Why? Because they were from the Districts instead of the Capitol? How could you say that? You spoke to all of them! You never thought Rue was anything like your niece? Sweet, innocent, wouldn’t hurt a fly? You think Primrose Everdeen, who would’ve gone into the Arena had K-K-Katniss not volunteered for her, wasn’t innocent? They were all innocent, Caesar.” He paused. “And they were all someone’s Cordelia.”

“Is this why you came here? To wave my dead niece in my face? To break me like they broke you before I’m executed? 

Peeta was quiet for several minutes. Again, Caesar could not help but see the condescending way the man looked at him. 

“I came here,” said the young man. “Because I really wanted to know how someone who seemed like a good man could shake and kiss the hands of the children he was helping to kill.”

“And? Please, I’d love to know the answer to that question.”

“You’re just an old man—not good, not evil—who’s had too many mirrors, cameras, and colors in his face his whole life to see what was happening right in front of him. So you let it happen.”

“Are they going to kill me?”

Peeta shrugged. “Probably. They don’t tell me these things. But if you die, at least you still get to be you. That’s more than can be said for most of us involved in those Games.” He sighed, and began to gather the mugs and plates. “I’m leaving.”

“Nice of you to drop by.” 

When he was gone, Caesar migrated to the mattress that served as his bed. He closed his eyes, dreamed of the camera and the colors. 

He really was an old man. It wouldn’t be long now.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a totally different direction to bring Caesar's character than my previous fic about him. I'm still trying to work out what exactly he is, which is fascinating in of itself.
> 
> As always, a major thank you to my lovely beta, AO3 user KateC125 for all of her help (and title brainstorming!)


End file.
